


You've Got Me

by CrazyAsACupcake



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, POV Second Person, Romance, fem!reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyAsACupcake/pseuds/CrazyAsACupcake
Summary: A series of Nishinoya Yuu/Fem!Reader one-shots based off of hug prompts by @mysunfreckle on Tumblr.
Relationships: Nishinoya Yuu/Reader
Kudos: 1





	You've Got Me

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to try this series of hug-related prompts in order to try and improve my writing style a bit. I have made the Reader character around 5'0 so that Noya is just the slightest bit taller, so I hope that's not a problem (nothing that can't be adapted, it's just him resting his head on her shoulder!). I hope you enjoy! Love, CrazyAsACupcake x

You scuff your shoe back and forth along the floor outside the gym. You don't know how long you've been waiting for him – _long enough_ , your friends back home would say. You smile sadly to yourself as you think of them.

It's weird to think that within two months, your friendship group dropped from fourteen all the way down to one. It's weird to think that moving across the world made you essentially dead to them. You wonder if they would've stopped messaging you if you'd moved to the next town over, too. Surely it's not that easy to just forget about someone you've known for ten years – you know you haven't stopped thinking about them since the moment you stepped off the plane.

Without thinking, you pull your phone out of your pockets, but you aren't surprised to see you still have no texts. No one's even liked your Facebook status, or your new Instagram post. You pull up one text conversation, and your stomach drops when you see they've read your last message.

_Maybe we could all Facetime or something this weekend? I miss you guys!_

They read it, within an hour of you sending it. You open the conversation below it.

_I bought bubble gum ice cream in your honour today, haha! I hope we can catch up soon – missing you always!_

Read.

_I finally caved and bought a manga book, are you proud of me? Text me some suggestions! Miss you!_

Read.

You open every text conversation from the past month, all fourteen conversations with your friends back home.

Every single one of them has been opened. Every single one of them has been read.

Every single one of them has been ignored.

You bite your lip as you feel the tears welling up in your eyes, telling yourself not to cry, not now, stood outside the gym. You unzip your bag and shove your phone all the way to the bottom, beneath your books and your lunch box, then zip the bag back up so you aren't tempted to dig it out. You push your hands into your jacket pocket, staring at a point on the floor, blurred by the tears in your eyes.

There are shouts inside the gym, the squeak of metal as the net is dismantled, the bubbling laughter as the boys inside pack their things together to leave.

You swallow, waiting.

You don't know why you wait for him, maybe because he told you to, and you were too afraid to say no. Maybe because you don't want to be the weirdo who walks home alone: the foreign girl with no friends. You don't even know if you actually _are_ friends, or if he's just loud and energetic and loves any attention he can get, and he sees that you're willing to give it. Even if it is that, though, he's been helping you learn Japanese, and in return you help him with his English homework.

Sometimes, if he remembers to bring money, he'll buy you a Gari Gari ice pop (your favourite is the grape one), and you'll eat them as you walk together.

When you think of it, you aren't even sure he lives anywhere near you. You're certain that when you get to your street, he turns and walks back the way you came from, his hands tucked deep in his trouser pockets. You're certain he only goes out of his way because he knows you'll listen to him.

You wonder to yourself if that's what friendship is, after all, just being listened to and not being afraid of being able to say whatever you're thinking. You haven't told him much yet, apart from your name and where you're from. He asked about your friends a few times, but each time you've been able to turn the conversation back to him. You don't want to sound pathetic, saying the words out loud.

_I don't think I have any anymore._

The gym doors open, and your head jerks up at the noise. A boy with grey hair stands in the doorway and pulls his shoes on, looking up at you as you brush a loose hair out of your face. He smiles warmly, and you smile awkwardly back.

"You okay?" He asks in Japanese, pulling his bag higher on his shoulder and zipping his jacket up.

You nod, for some reason unable to make any words come out. You think, wracking your brain for the Japanese words you should respond to him with, but for some reason all you're getting is white noise. You swallow, and, in English, you're finally able to say: "I'm just waiting for someone…" You point (just as awkwardly as you smile) towards the gym doors.

You see a flicker of something on his face before he turns back, looking in the gym. He switches into English for you, and you curse yourself for not being able to do the same thing for him. "Is it Yamaguchi? Or Tsukishima? Hinata's here too."

You don't know any of those names.

"Do you want me to shout them for you?"

"No, it's – um – is there no one else in there?" You can feel your heart against your ribs, hear the blood rushing through your ears. Your throat feels dry again. Maybe this is what he's been plotting for the past month – getting used to him being there, thinking of him as a friend, making you believe in him, then ditching you out of the blue. The classic prank.

How could you be so _stupid_?

The boy in the doorway looks again, and frowns. He turns back to you. "Who are you waiting for?"

"Nishi-" Your throat feels thick. You swallow again ( _stop swallowing_!). "Nishinoya?"

His frown deepens. "He left about five minutes ago."

"Sorry." Your chest tightens, your eyes sting, and you almost trip over your feet as you turn around. "I must have gotten the wrong day." Your cheeks grow wet as the tears finally fall, and you're unable to stop them this time.

You want to disappear. You want the ground to open up and you want to drop into it with your arms flailing wildly as it seals itself behind you.

"Hey-" The grey-haired boy calls after you, but you keep going.

You can't turn around. You can't stop. Because if you do you won't be able to start again. You'll fall to pieces in the middle of this path in a country you barely know, and you don't know if you'll have the strength to put yourself back together.

You sniffle to yourself, rubbing your cheeks harshly with the heel of your left hand, feeling the heat radiating from your embarrassment and anger on your skin.

There's footsteps behind you, coming in fast. You grip your keys in your pocket.

"Hey!" They shout, almost on top of you, and you realise it's him. "Stop!"

Before you can turn, he collides into you, slipping his arms through yours and wrapping them around your waist. You freeze. He squeezes you tightly, resting his chin on top of your shoulder from behind you.

"I'm sorry." He hugs you for a moment longer, then lets go. "I left my bag in the club room, and I had to go back and get it. I should've told you."

You stare at him. "You didn't leave me there?"

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. People do, I guess."

"I wouldn't."

"Oh." Your cheeks flare again. _Stupid_. "That's good."

He laughs, turning you around to walk you in the direction of the shop at the bottom of the hill. "I think we need some Gari Gari ice pops, don't you?"

He talks about his practice, and how he's going to try and get you into the gym _one of these days_ so you can meet his friends, because he knows they'll think you're great ("If _I_ think you're awesome, then they _definitely_ will!").

He's done by the time you reach the bottom of the hill, and you come to a stop outside the shop. He shoves his hands into his pockets – he talks a lot with his hands, especially when he's explaining the game to you.

Then he says it. The question he's asked every day for the past month.

"So… what about your friends?"

You inhale, thinking of the phone at the bottom of your bag and the countless ignored messages.

"I…" You can't say it. The words are right there, just out of reach. Your fingertips are brushing against them, but you can't get a firm enough grip. Maybe you actually can reach, but you just don't want to, because you know when you grab them, when you hold the words to your heart then it's actually real.

"You…" He nudges you with his shoulder, prompting you to continue.

You grab those words and you taste them in your mouth and you speak them into existence.

"I don't have any friends."

You feel as if that cord – that 5,640 mile cord – has finally snapped.

And it _hurts_.

He frowns. "That's not true."

"It is."

"It's not," he pulls some coins out of his pocket.

"How?"

"Because you've got me."


End file.
